Well, here it is. It doesn't strictly have to be a poem, but we are poetry people, are we not?
No. 2577: Give me five
You are invited to supply definitions of five types of anything you choose. Walk? Kiss? Farewell? It’s up to you. Entries to ‘Competition 2577’ by 2 January or email
lucy@spectator.co.uk.
Incidentaly, the results to that anagrammatic thing are in this week's issue. I have saved this amazing effort for you. It is an anagram of the first stanza of Larkin's 'Aubade'. Sheer genius!
Aubade
Wife or husband: both will drop,
Quiet, day or night —
Everything will rant, screw, stop,
End: you will feel its bite.
Then, aren’t we a mess,
Unmanned, torn? Wait:
Chum, try and undress.
We’re late.
Desires? Seen the clock?
Sssh: noises bang,
Bang true: that’s it: and tock! —
The fever warns: Go hang.
I hate to say it, son, but death
Will geld you in the end:
Hitched or not, it’s lack of breath
Will annul all sense, my friend.
Bill Greenwell
Threaded Mode
